


Cultural Differences

by kaijusizefeels



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alpha Illya, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, I'm Sorry, It’s Filth Again, Knotting, M/M, Male Lactation, No mpreg, Omega Napoleon, Weird Biology, that damned watch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 06:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/pseuds/kaijusizefeels
Summary: Illya knows that capitalists have some odd notions regarding alphas and omegas but he never realized how strange they were until Napoleon Solo.EDIT: Check out Atanau’s amazingartfor this. It’s so HOT!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So much thanks for the_worrying_kind for the amazing beta. Otherwise, this would be a complete mess. All the weird!dirty!bad!wrong everything is my fault and only my fault. I mean, why not leverage A/B/O verse for exploring some biology quirks and the cultural norms that result from them.
> 
> Also, check out Atanau’s amazing [ art](http://atanau-art.tumblr.com/post/170204005108/inspiration-cultural-differences-by) for this. It’s so HOT!
> 
>  
> 
> You can skip all the weird sex by going directly to chapter 2 for a short, sweet epilogue.

Illya knows that capitalists have some odd notions regarding alphas and omegas but he never realized how strange they were until Napoleon Solo.He never thought that he would see any omega, rare as they are, in the field. But Napoleon Solo's files stated his designation in crisp black and white text: омега (omega)-мужской (male).

One of CIA's most effective agents, Oleg had said, sounding vaguely impressed. Illya imagined that Oleg's next report to the Directorate might contain a recommendation for adding omegas to the field effective immediately.

"No mate is listed here. Not even a heat partner," Illya frowned as he flipped through Solo's dossier. "In field, how does he deal with," he gestured vaguely, looking for an appropriate way to say—.

"His heat? The need to be milked? Don't be so prudish, Kuryakin," Oleg sneered. "The capitalists are savages. They believe that anyone can milk an omega, even strangers. I have heard that they even made machines to do so; it is barbaric."

Illya silently agreed but dismissed the information to focus on the more important details of his mission in East Berlin to prevent the CIA's extraction of one Gabriella Teller.

 

* * *

 

Their first mission was a success after the initial hiccups. So much so that Illya felt excitement rather than trepidation after learning that Oleg had effectively loaned him out indefinitely to UNCLE.

In the field, their respective genders, alpha, beta and omega, hardly matters. Illya maintains that Cowboy is a terrible spy, but an effective one; Chop Shop Girl is clever and resourceful despite her lack of combat experience or training. Napoleon often leaves behind infatuated bevies of alphas and betas wherever they go. Still one thing puzzles Illya in that Napoleon never smells like satisfaction despite bedding all those people.

Once in a blue moon, Napoleon disappears like a queening cat only to appear mostly normal, or whatever passes for normal for Napoleon, the next morning. Napoleon covers his track well when it comes these "getaways", but Illya has picked up more than a few tricks from the sneaky thief over the past few months.

Should not go off by himself. It’s foolish-- is what Illya repeats to himself as he drops silently onto the balcony, having tailed Solo from his apartment to this random hotel. The humid summer heat means that Solo has left the window slightly ajar so that Illya can both see and hear him. He is on the phone,

"Look. Can't you send? Please I need—".

A brief pause and then Solo slams down the receiver in frustration when it appears that the person on the other end has hung up on him. He runs a hand through his unstyled hair, messing the curls further. Illya has never seen him so agitated, not even when a gun was pointed at his head.

He stays quiet as Solo lets out a defeated sigh and begins to methodically riffle through a suitcase. Eventually, Napoleon pulls out a complicated tangle of tubes and wires.

At first Illya is not sure what it is, but he quickly figures out the situation as Napoleon disrobes.

_Oleg was right, the Americans did invent a machine for omega heat._

 

* * *

 

Napoleon whimpers when his hand accidentally brushes against an engorged nipple. His pectoral mammaries are full and heavy with milk, and the briefest of touches sparks a fire within him. It has been a little over a month since his last milking.  
  
It is an unfortunate and inconvenient reality that despite their sterility, male omegas continuously produce milk once they’ve reached sexual maturity for they never lost their overactive, vestigial mammary glands.

With trembling hands, Napoleon picks up and delicately fits a plastic suction cup over each nipple.

That done, the omega gingerly cups his half hard but already dripping cock and places it into a another, larger cup. Unlike alphas, male omega penises does not fully become erect, making them unsuitable for penetration nor are they capable of impregnating beta and omega females.

Sanders had always disparagingly referred to his cock as another tit to fondle; the asshole was not shy about calling alphas and omegas genetic freaks.

On there other hand, there had also been advantages to working for Sanders and the CIA. Sanders made sure to assign an alpha for Napoleon during his heat; never the same person twice; they were nameless, and their touches were perfunctory at best, but they got him through his heat. The R&D team even created a prototype machine for milking omegas, a machine that Napoleon borrowed, but never bothered to return.

The very machine he must rely on now for a milking because he is _that_ desperate for relief.

Maybe he could have— should have asked Illya for help. Having a partner is rare for Napoleon, having an alpha partner that Napoleon is undeniably attracted to has never happened before. He can't count the number of times he has fantasized about Illya since their meeting in Berlin nor the numbers of “accidents” Illya caused him by doing something as innocuous as pressing their bodies together to avoid a wandering security guard. But he doesn’t really know what the Russian thinks of him. He’s almost sure that Illya cares for him as a partner, but as an omega...

The heat coiling within him reminds him that he cannot wait anymore.

Napoleon fumbles for the switch on other side of the dictionary-sized control box. The device starts with a loud groan like a waking beast as the miniature pumps begin to work up and down to generate enough pressure to give temporary relief to his sensitive omega tits and cock.

He buries his head into the sheets, grateful that there is no one else around to hear his cries. The suction is harsh and relentless, not at all gentle like the mouth of a lover.

 

* * *

 

Illya realizes that he’s been holding his breath when he’s forced to inhale at the same time the machine rattles to life. He can just barely hear Napoleon’s occasional moans above the loud bellows of the machine’s pumps. However, he can clearly see the vision of man and machine coupling and twisting together in front of him.

The omega’s hip undulates with the rhythmic action of the machine. Solo appears to be nearly devoured by the tangle of tubes and wires that drape across the bed sheets like vines. Liquid milk begins to fill the plastic cups and then through the suction tubes to splash into the collection container.

In Russia, it would have been a mate who would be enjoying Napoleon’s sweet secretions rather than letting it go to waste. An alpha partner who would be whispering sweet words and comforts as they finger and knot their Omega’s fluttering hole.

Instead here, he endures the sight of the American cowboy letting himself be milked by a machine like an animal.

Only a beta could have designed and built such a cruel machine, Illya thinks.

 

* * *

 

"Damn.” Napoleon alternates between swearing in frustration and moaning in need. He’s loud enough that Illya is afraid that some strange alpha is going to tear down the hotel door and claim Solo right in front of him. Part of him wants to be that alpha.

The other part of Illya, the one who remembers all the rules his mom laid out for him as soon as she realized that her child is a rare alpha, is abhorred at his invasion of an omega’s privacy, even if said the omega is as annoying as Napoleon Solo. Illya should leave Solo and his American device in peace. And tomorrow, he will stare the omega in the face and no one would be the wiser that he has seen the male omega during one of his most vulnerable moments.

With great reluctance, but his mind made up, Illya turns around to leave. And freezes when he hears "Illya!" from inside the hotel.

He turns around guiltily, readying himself to confront an angry, indignant omega.

Only no one is behind him. Instead, he finds Napoleon back on his bed, eyes squeezed shut, twisting in need. His hands strokes aimlessly anywhere and everywhere around the tubes and wires but without any resultant satisfaction.

As only a machine can, the machine continues its rhythm without faltering. Fluids pump steadily through the tubes even though the omega is pleading brokenly for someone, something else.

" _Illyaaaa_."

He sees Napoleon’s hands drift lower, past his weeping dick that is still ensnared in the gaping maw of the mechanical beast. Careful of the wiring and tubing protruding on his chest, Napoleon contorts himself so that he can sink as many fingers as possible desperately into his heat.

"Illya. Alpha. Please," Napoleon sobs.

It’s awful to see an omega resorting to touching himself like that, without a mate.

Illya turns away, angry and filled with an inner desperation that he can not explain. His hands taps uncontrollably to the beat of the Americans awful, clever machine.

Responding to his omega’s call, Illya’s self-control snaps. He stands to shatter the window, only remembering at the last moment that it is already partially open.

Cowboy is a terrible spy. Flushed and lost in the fantasy inside his head, he does not notice an interloper stepping carefully into his room. An interloper that draws in air as if he is drowning just so he can catch, taste, every single particle of the omega’s heady scent.

 

* * *

 

Illya stops at the window.

"Cowboy?” he whispers. He is half hoping that the sound of his voice will be drowned out by the machine and he can just remain there, rooted to the cheap, ugly avocado-shade carpet and watch Napoleon forever. 

He remembers his mother’s warnings again, that she would disown him if he ever lays a hand on an omega without permission, biological urges be damned. You aren’t an animal, she told him and stroked his face, so don’t act like one.

"Napoleon," he says again, louder.

"What," Napoleon struggles to open his eyes. "Illya—" he gapes back in surprise.

Illya freezes completely. They stare at each other; one in bewilderment and one in doubt.

Their stalemate is broken by the machine suddenly switching to a higher gear. Perhaps the American-made machine has somehow learned the art of dramatic moments from its owner. "Ahh!" Napoleon lets out an ear-splitting yowl as the pneumatic pumps drive harder to squeeze his tender flesh.

The omega collapses and trembles with helpless abandon. His fingers and toes scrabble and clutch at the worn cotton sheets desperately. Illya stares helplessly at the omega’s abortive efforts to try to present himself, stuck between needing to help and needing permission to help.

He almost didn’t hear the chocked plea, "Illya, help me please."

 

* * *

 

The alpha crosses the room in two large strides. The omega sobs when large hands disconnect the machines and yank everything away from his body. Illya throws the entire mess roughly over his shoulder to shatter against the wall.

Before Napoleon can protest the destruction of his fancy capitalist machine, Illya latches onto a red and swollen nipple and sucks. One large hand reaches out and massages Napoleon’s other breast.

Milk bursts across his taste buds as his tongue and lips work furiously in sync to induce more sweetness from Napoleon.

The omega alternates between whining at the rough treatment and shuddering helplessly whenever Illya’s stubble scrapes across his now beyond sensitive chest.

He begins to openly sob when Illya turns his attention to the other nipple, licking at the milk that has already flowed out due to his previous attentions.

“Peril. Peril!”

Napoleons hands drifts and fists through Illya’s hair, pulling at the golden strands to try to retain some sort of control of the situation. Illya bites down on the engorged nipple to protest in reaction to a sharp yank against his scalp.

"Shh, shh," he quickly kisses away the bite marks in apology.

Napoleon’s entire body arches in response. It is only the strength of Illya’s right hand on his hips that keeps him on the bed. Feeling bold, that hand drifts lower and cups Napoleon’s weeping cock. Illya brings back a handful of omega cum and eagerly drinks Napoleon’s emission from his cupped hand. He groans, watching Napoleon watching his reaction with startlingly bright eyes.

His growl starts low in his chest. It is a more primal taste that touches his tongue. A heavier taste than Napoleon's breast milk but no less sweet. Thicker in texture, it tastes distinctly of Napoleon and his essence.

Illya realizes that with one taste, he is already hopelessly addicted. His taste buds, his pores are imprinted with Napoleon’s scent.

He wants to put his mouth on Napoleon's cock, and suckle. And yet he wants to keep sucking on Solo’s nipples, equally as much as he wants to taste Napoleons sweet hole.  
  
He wants. He _wants_.

There is so much that Illya wants that he is overwhelmed.

Napoleon takes away Illya’s indecision when he grabs Illya's wrist and gasps, "Fuck me, alpha." He sounds hoarse, parched. "Knot me, Illya."

There is nothing he can do but obey. Thick fingers wander and worshipfully trace Napoleon’s opening. It’s hot and dripping wet. Illya wants to break away and replaces his fingers with his mouth in order to taste Napoleon there. But a steady flow of sweet milk streaming from Napoleon’s engorged nipples reminds him of how much Napoleon’s tits still need his attention.

His poor omega has been suffering silently by himself, desperate for relief but too proud to ask, so proud that he resorts to using a mechanical abomination or even worse, begging a nameless, uncaring alpha to take care of his needs instead of Illya.

With no further delay, because Napoleon is so on edge and desperate that Illya can even taste it in his essence. Illya curls and presses two thick fingers into Napoleon’s sensitive channel; slick flows down his fingers to wet the bedsheet underneath. He quickly pulls them out to lick them clean, unwilling to let any part of Napoleon go to waste.

His hands go to his pants and only then, does Illya realizes his own body’s reaction — his rigid alpha cock strains painfully against the seams of his brief, balls heavy with eagerness and the urge to breed.

Surrounded and covered in Napoleon’s sweet scent, the alpha wonders if it’s possible that he will be able to pop a knot inside his pants. But he doesn’t have the luxury for experimentation this time because Napoleon’s body is pleading for him to debauch it, fill it full of his alpha seed and seal it with his knot. He wants to see Napoleon’s tender hole pierced and challenged to stretch around his root.  
  
Eagerly, he only has the mind for pulling down his pants before he is dropping Napoleon onto his cock so that he can wind his arms around Napoleon and continue to nurse. He groans around a mouth full of milk as his tender cockhead pushes slowly past Napoleon’s tight ring to sheath itself in wet, omega heat.

Illya bounces Napoleon roughly on his cock. _No machine can do this for you_ , he crows silently.

But he knows that the American scientists can be almost as fiendishly clever as Soviet scientists. In his mind, he can already envision a newer machine, cleverer than the earlier model, driving upward into Napoleon’s body in a pace as relentless as the milking machine. 

He frowns and pumps his hips faster in order to outpace this imaginary competitor. Napoleon can only, barely, hold on, at the edge of overwhelmed as he is yanked up and down. Illya’s mouth alternates between soft and cruel as he gulps down mouthful of Napoleon’s milk even as he fills Napoleon with his long, thick cock.

Napoleon switches between shuddering in pleasure and cursing at the rutting Russian beast in all the languages he knows.

“Sil'neye! Mou! Illya, kudasai. Schneller!”

Illya on the other hand can only think of one word: mine. Mine. MINE.

The alpha is inexhaustible as he thrusts and yanks, sucking and stroking what he can touch and taste. His sweat mingles with Napoleon’s, coating their bodies in sheen that glows in the warm lamp light.

Napoleon's orgasm catches him by surprise. He only hears a short gasp of "Illya" before a dam bursts and floods his mouth with milk. He gulps as fast as he can. His still clothed torso is suddenly drenched in milk and cum. He’s filled and covered in Napoleon’s milk and scent inside and out.

It's that thought that accompanies his own shattering orgasm as he releases a torrent of cum into the omega. Napoleon answers with an additional gush of slick. Illya moans at the thought of his omega, filled and full with them both; his fat knot is the only thing preventing everything from flooding out of Napoleon.  

He strokes Napoleon heaving flank gently as he tries and fails to rearrange sweat drenched curls back into some semblance of order. Eventually he gives up. Illya kisses the tip of Napoleon’s strong nose before he licks his way into that bow shaped mouth.

"Ok, Cowboy?" The omega’s nipples have returned to their usual size though he shudders and moans if Illya so much as breathes against them.

Napoleon nods and closes his eyes to snuggle closer to the large Russian alpha as Illya lays them into a more comfortable supine position. He thinks that Napoleon has fallen asleep until he hears a scratchy groan from within his arms, "you just destroyed Uncle Sam's $4000 prototype, Peril."

He grunts.

"Take it up with Oleg," he says roughly and snaps his hips forward. His knot twitches and swells more, as he spurts into the omega, prompting an answering gush once again. “Was very low tech."

He covers Napoleon’s lips with his. "You won’t need it again. Ponimaesh?”


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon wakes up feeling warm and safe in his alpha’s arms. Sometime in the night, Illya’s knot had gone down and he had managed to not only clean them both but also to bundle them together on the dry part of the bed as well.

“Good morning,” Illya smiles softly at him. “How do you feel?”

“Perfect, Peril. Perfect,” he whispers back, feeling uncharacteristically shy. Napoleon’s hand itches to reach up and gently stroke through his alpha's soft golden strands.

“We should tell Gaby where we are,” Illya reaches finally for the phone with one arm while Napoleon lazes in the other, occasionally running his hand through the alpha's dark blond chest hair.

Gaby answers immediately after the first ring.

“Gaby, I’m with Napoleon. We are,” Illya winces when angry German curses interrupts him, loud enough that even Napoleon can hear it.

“Arschloch! Dummkopf! Do you know how worried I was last night when neither of you came back! I stayed up all night debating if I should tell Waverly that the two of you are missing, or dead in a ditch somewhere. Where are you?”

They look guiltyly at one another. Wordlessly, Illya hands the receiver over to Napoleon.

“Gaby, Gaby, we’re safe. We were never in any danger at all.” Napoleon speaks calmly and softly. “Illya, Peril, helped me out last night is all. We’re coming back today, soon.”

Gaby’s anger dissipates because Illya can no longer hear what she’s saying on the other end now that he’s not holding the receiver.

Napoleon listens intently for a brief moment and responds, “Yes. I promise. We’ll be back soon.”

“She said that we owe her big,” he tells Illya immediately. “Oh and congratulations for — and I quote — getting your collectively heads out of your asses finally.” Napoleon smiles wide as he hands the receiver back to Illya to hang up.

“She will make us pay.” Illya can imagine the hours of extra reports that he will have to write for her but nothing can deter the joy he feels as he grins back happily at his mate.

Napoleon makes a show of stretching as he pulls away from Illya to get up. Illya drinks in his fill of long expanses of soft skin accompanied by his mate’s sweet spicy scent.

“What?” Napoleon feels himself blushing in response to the intense scrutiny.

“In Russia, I would present you with my collar today. It is a sign, between mates,” Illya begins but he knows that is only a foolish daydream.

First, Americans don’t subscribe to such a tradition. Collars are reserved for pets and criminals. Second, it’s not safe or smart to advertise their mated status in their line of work. Third, and this bothers him the most to admit, occasionally the success of their mission depends on more than Napoleon's thieving skills.

So it is not possible to present Napoleon with his collar, which lays safely stored in a small suitcase inside his closet, along with the rest of his prized possessions.

Napoleon captures and holds Illya’s hand against his cheek. He knows what Illya has been thinking, “Only when it’s an absolute necessity. And I do want to wear your collar, Illya.” He breathes, “More than anything in the world. I wish that things could be different somehow.”

They hold onto each other tightly, lost in thought.

Illya runs his hand up and down Napoleon’s naked back when he sees the perfect solution sparkling in the light.

“Cowboy”, he pulls Napoleon away so he can kiss him excitedly. “My омега.” He takes off his father’s watch and holds it up for Napoleon.

Napoleon’s eyes widen, “Illya, are you sure?” He asks even as Illya gently takes ahold of his hand and fits the worn leather strap around his left wrist.

In a daze, Napoleon asks again, “mine?”

Illya kisses his pulse point that now sits behind the snug buckle of the watch. “Yours, Napoleon.”

It is Illya who breaks the moment when he lifts his mate into his arm in a show of alpha strength and carries him into the bathroom. 


End file.
